Cancer couture

Going through chemo, you develop some interesting fashion habits. And no, I'm not referring to the often ridiculous head coverings marketed to us follicularly challenged females. (Although I did learn how to tie a turban.)

To start with, there's the layered look. A brisk walk to the shuttle in the morning, a chilly seat during infusion (despite the warm-from-the-dryer crochet-style blankets they drape you in), a bone-chillingly windy wait atop Mt. Parnassus for the bus, and a sunny, hot walk back home - not to mention an internal body temperature thrown haywire by the drugs - these days of personal microclimates call for a flexible outfit.

And, your clothes need to be accessible. By that, I mean that tubes, needles, and deadly drugs have to make their way through your precious duds without ruining them. So the layers have to be carefully planned. A long-sleeved Henley for the bottom layer? Not so much - can't poke a needle in your arm. Any type of t-shirt collar? Nope - can't get to the port without stretching the neck of the shirt. Sports bra? No way - puts tons of pressure on the port (as well as covering it up).

And you realize, on those mornings off work when you lay in bed trying desperately to sit up and realizing that flexing your abs takes more strength than you can muster, that everything you wear has to be washed, and dried, and folded, and ironed. So you gravitate toward the easy-care items that hopefully still that fit the aforementioned criteria. A button-down shirt is great for accessibility, but scores abysmally low on the "maintenance" scale (wrinkle city). Long-sleeve knit undershirts are warm, low-maintenance, and great for layering...but not accessible in the slightest.

Head coverings - marketed as the great care and concern of cancerously bald women - are, by far, the least complicated part of my dressing game. I haven't desired to venture into the complicated and often pricey world of wigs. On the occasion I do wear a hat, I've stuck to my existing, limited millinery - if it's not part of a uniform, it usually doesn't get worn. An old nautical standby, my black knit cap is good for our typical summer days here - windy, overcast, foggy, and cold.

But all these are rarely worn. Pretty much my standard headgear is an old bandanna, black or blue, tied around my head. The uninformed passersby can't even tell for sure if I'm bald - maybe I'm just being uber-conservative by covering my head. The bandanna is also a highly adaptable, multi-use accessory. I can pull it down over my eyes to catch a quick fatigue-induced catnap. Or clutch it during a moment of pain, or mop up sweat occasioned by an overtaxed heart and lungs. The best part, though, is that particularly with sunglasses, it looks totally badass. Well, maybe a little too badass. I thought my best friend's trip to the principal's office in high school for wearing her ever-so-modest "kerchief" was an isolated and silly event (apparently it was "gang apparel"), until I was corralled this weekend for special airport screening for daring to wear my terrorist bandanna while trying to fly. (Good thing I didn't try out the Chemo Chicks' cancer turban.)

In truth, I go bald a lot. Nothing is quite as comfortable or as liberating as a freshly shaved, baby-smooth pate. At work, I have to go bald if I'm not outside, which induces its fair amount of confusion among personnel not in on the game. (Although, to be fair, they're just as gender-confused, if not more so, to run into the ball-cap-clad me.) In fact, outside of uniform constraints, I really only cover up for basically one of two reasons: (a) to keep my glaringly white head from sunburning brutally; or (b) to keep other people from being embarrassed. Yep. Head covered, no one gives me a second look; but bald, I'm stared at, or worse - not stared at, that uncomfortable certainty that people are trying very hard not to look at you.

I am curious to see the peculiar fashion fetishes that radiation treatment may induce.